


Savior

by SunnseanicArts



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dry Sex, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, First Time, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Jealousy, Love Triangle, M/M, Overprotective!Connor, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Relationship Crisis, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1360903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnseanicArts/pseuds/SunnseanicArts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Each night Murphy tries to seek his near. Snuggling up to him, holding him, kissing him, sneaking his hand inside his shirt, trying to move the hand lower. Each night Connor groans and moves his hand back up. Connor just wants to hold him, wrap his arms around him and hold him so fucking tight that he can hardly breathe. He just wants to protect.  So far, Murphy’s said nothing. Connor leads and he follows. But he knows they are fucking. He knows Daryl is giving his brother the things he will no longer take from him."</p><p>Connor is having a hard time dealing with his brother role at the end of the world. Murphy is having a hard time trying NOT to be jealous of the man who looks like him. Daryl is just glad he's not alone anymore. Plagued by nightmares, ridden with guilt, after the fall of the prison.  In the end, it's NOT your typical love triangle. They're each other's savior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savior

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I've always wanted to write. I'm a big big Conphy shipper. Have been for many years now. I got started with Walking Saints fics and made myself a Connaryl shipper. I do love my Arrows and Bullets series to death and I'm going to keep writing it, but it soon made me feel like I'm missing out on some good material, with the Murphy headshot thing and all putting stones in my path.
> 
> So I came to the conclusion that I seriously need to write a new Walking Saints fic with a healthy Conphy relationship, the essence of the Connaryl relationship, and a possible Darphy bromance. I've also always wanted to write a true slash fic, a Conphy slash fic, because I'm so in love with their relationship, the way they are with each other. So here it is! The end result! Conphy/Connaryl triangle Walking Saints slash fic.
> 
> I'm also sorry about my English in this fic. I'm German and I'm usually writing in past tense but this time, I tried to write it in present tense and ended up getting the tenses wrong sometimes. How do you English, basically. Lol.
> 
> And to make it even more fucked up, this is my first _real_ slash fic. So please, I apologize if this is crappy.
> 
> Despite the grammar and slash thing, I'm still very proud of this fic and I'm actually loving it myself.  
> I hope you like it, too.

**Murphy**  
  
You would think that he’s going to dub the first day of the outbreak as the ‚ _worst day of his life_ ‘.  
Walking dead people, disease, death around every corner, the end of society, constant hunger and fear. Pretty bad, right?  
But certainly not the worst. There is nothing worse than the day they met _him.  
  
  
_ He is watching them. Connor, his brother, with the other guy, the face stealer. Murphy is sitting on a rock by the river, naked feet in the water, washing his clothes on the other side, far away from them. Connor has asked him to join them, to sit with them and _stop being a fockin mope-face,_ but there is no way in hell he’s going to listen to their talk, no way he is going to hear _him_ talk. Connor is grinning. Smiling. Laughing and joking as he washes his dirty shirts in the river, right beside Daryl, the redneck asshole, the _face stealer_. Even worse. Redneck guy is smiling, too. Looking at him, eyes _fixed_ on just _him_. Connor, _his_ brother.  
  
There are two things Murphy doesn’t like about this.  
  
One: Daryl had been aggressive, angry, alone when they had crossed paths with him by the rail tracks. And now he’s acting completely different.  
  
 _Whenever he’s around Connor_.  
  
 _Then_ he’s smiling and sometimes even joking, too, and it makes Murphy want rip his ears and eyes out because he doesn’t want to hear it, see it.  
  
Thing number two he doesn’t like about this: It’s the exact same with Connor.  
  
Things have been very different and complicated ever since the outbreak started. Maybe he _can_ dub it the worst day of his life then, he ponders, but it doesn’t matter. Fact is, ever since the outbreak, Connor has been even bitchier. Constantly on edge, constantly stressed, constantly burying his head in all sorts of survival plans and lists of what they have left and what they need and what they should get and what they should leave.  
  
He’s never been like this before. Not when they got started as the Saints, not when they’d gone back, not when they had been in prison. But after the outbreak?  
  
Connor has always been a handful. Some people have never been able to get him. Some have been annoyed by his cockiness, by his commanding tone, by his stubbornness. But he, Murphy, his _twin_ brother, has always been fine with Connor’s everything. He’s grown up with him. He’s spent billions of seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years with this man and he appreciates _every_ second of it. Wouldn't change it for the world.  
  
And all those years, Connor has never been like he’s been during the first couple of months.  They’ve only fucked twice since the outbreak. Once very early on, only days after the initial start, when they had both been freaked out and terrified and stressed and when they had needed the release. Connor had needed it, just like the countless times before.  
  
Here is the thing. The thing Murphy now considers the main problem and curse.  
  
Connor is _very_ protective of him. Sure, he is protective of Connor, too, and they love each other to death. But with Connor, it just isn’t healthy anymore. His dear brother needs to be in charge 24/7, he needs to control, to boss around, to protect. And many many times, it gets a bit too much. It’s not like Connor doesn’t like being in charge, he loves it, no matter how exhausting it is. And because it is so exhausting, he needs some way to let go.  
  
Murphy has always embraced that. He utterly, utterly loves Connor. He will do anything for him. Giving himself to him whenever he can, making love to him, helping him let go, giving in to their deepest wish - becoming one person instead of constantly being one soul trapped in two bodies. Just twice has Connor given in to this demand, the one they’ve been following since the day they turned 16. The stress of the outbreak had made him give in, the fear, _his constant fuckin fear of losing him_ which has been triplicated because of all the walking corpses around them.  
  
And this is exactly the point.  
  
It’s too much. The fear, the _constant_ worry.  
  
It has broken Connor.  
  
Stopped him from ever getting out of this overstressed, overprotective crazy thinking state, stopped him from letting his guard down for just a second, even during a simple fuck.  
  
At least until now.  
  
Because now _he_ is with them.  
  
One could think that now that Connor is smiling and laughing and relaxing again (all thanks to the fucking redneck and not him), he would come back to him.  
That he would come to him at night and touch him again and stop protecting and actually start _loving_ him again.  
  
But Connor won’t.  
  
Whenever the redneck is gone and they are actually together, inside their tent or a room or whatever, Connor immediately goes back to his post-outbreak self. The constant worried frowning, the brooding, the silent nightmares.  
  
Each night Murphy tries to seek his near. Snuggling up to him, holding him, kissing him, sneaking his hand inside his shirt, stroking his belly that is far too thin, trying to move the hand lower. Each night Connor groans and moves his hand back up.  Connor just wants to hold him, wrap his arms around him and hold him so fucking tight that he can hardly breathe.    
  
He just wants to protect.  
  
So far, Murphy’s said nothing. Connor leads and he follows.  But it's during moments like this one right here, when they are doing dumb things like wash their clothes and when Connor is laughing and having fun with the redneck guy and not him, it's during moments like this when he wants to break their unspoken rule, their unspoken and secretly defined bond.  
  
He knows they are fucking.  
  
He knows Daryl is giving his brother the things he will no longer take from him. Not anymore.  
Connor has told him. Right from the off. They’re never keeping secrets from each other, no matter how fucked up they are.  
Well, at least Connor isn’t keeping anything secret.  
  
 _He_ , Murphy, is keeping his very first secret from his brother.  
  
The secret:  
  
For the first time in his life he feels lonely. Betrayed.  
  
But much in contrast to Connor he doesn’t want to hurt his brother’s feelings, though.  
Doesn’t want to stop him from something that makes him happy.  
Because that’s what Connor is now. Ever since they met Daryl.  
  
He has tried many different things. Forcing Connor to fuck him. Pleading him. Being polite about it. Being rude about it. He’s tried to get to the root of the problem. Turning the whole thing around. Taking over the leadership role, protecting Connor, not relying on him at all and making his brother rely on him instead, to make him let go, to cut him some slack. Just so Connor stops protecting and gets back to _loving_ him.  
  
It doesn’t work. It never will. Because no matter how much it exhausts his sibling: Connor can’t stop.  
Connor can’t let go. Connor can’t _not_ worry and protect.  
  
Everything that has always made him feel protected, loved, secure. Murphy is calling it a curse now.  
The very reason why he feels left alone, ignored, abandoned.  


* * *

**Daryl  
  
** He won’t ever say it out loud, won't talk about it. The fact that he’s grateful, that he is glad and happy, oh so fucking happy.  
  
The first couple of weeks after the fall of the prison have been terrible. Even now, he won’t allow himself to think about it.  
The prison itself, all the death, the people he’s lost there.  
  
Beth.  
  
When he lost her.  
  
He still remembers that day. The car, the never ending running, the despair, the anger, the hatred, the hurt, the….loneliness. Sitting there, in the middle of the road after losing track by the crossing. For the very first time in his life, he’d been thinking about committing suicide. Right then and there. He’d already gotten started with it, in fact, by just sitting there. Sitting and waiting. For either Beth to come back, or for walkers to get him. Right in this very moment he’d lost everything. His new family. His new world, self-value, hope, purpose. He’d failed. Even now the memory and realization of that is too painful.  
  
He knows that he probably wouldn’t be alive anymore if it weren’t for the two people he is with now.  
If it weren’t for the person right next to him.  
  
Maybe this is the reason why he likes Connor so much, why he’s allowed himself to really go this far. Before the rail tracks, before losing Beth, before losing the prison and his entire family to the Governor, he’s sure, he never would’ve done it. Couldn’t possibly have. Fallen in love with a man.  
  
Even now he considers it slightly funny. He’s spent weeks with Beth. Just Beth. A girl, but still, a woman. But he’s felt nothing like that for her. He’s never felt anything like that with anyone else at all. Female, male.  But he’s lost them. All of them. They’re all gone. And he finally and really understands this new world now. The new rules.  
  
There is no society. No family. No one to judge. There are no rules of society because there is none. There is no media or bible or other people judging others for who they love and who they don’t love. There are no labels, no books, no words, no rules, no definitions. No time. There’s just him and Connor and Murphy.  
  
Maybe they are the only three people left in this world.  
And since he knows that he could lose them as well, any second now, he no longer dwells on any of it.  
  
He embraces it. He cherishes it.

And at the same time, he hates it.  
  
Many things in fact. He hates that they are Irish because their accents are annoying and make him feel like an outsider whenever they talk to each other. He hates Connor’s jokes although they make him laugh (he doesn’t want to laugh because the world is shitty and because he feels like he’s disrespecting his dead family). He hates how Connor and Murphy aren’t Rick and Carl and Michonne and Carol and Beth and all the others. He hates that Connor is better looking and more easygoing than him, hates that they are brothers, hates that Murphy isn’t his little brother but Connor’s, hates that he isn’t Connor’s brother but Murphy is.  
  
Speaking of Murphy.  
  
He looks up and watches the Irishman on the other side of the river. The hard look on his face, how tense he is, how aggressively he is scrubbing his clothes. It is true that Daryl sometimes wishes that Murphy would just cease to exist. That he would stop coming with them, that he could have Connor all to himself. Absorb his giving nature, away from the last pair of judging eyes. That he could stop seeing Connor look after Murphy, motherhenning him, loving him.  
  
But at the same time, he as a secret.  
  
The secret:  
  
He’s also _glad_ that Murphy is with them.  
  
He really likes him, in fact. They look alike and yet they are very different.  
  
Murphy is his secret wish, how he wants to be.  
  
Connor and Murphy haven’t lost that much because of the outbreak. A couple of friends, sure. Just like everyone. But other than that? They still have their most beloved ones (each other). They’ve never lost _everything_. They are used to people dying. They are okay because they have each other. Murphy doesn’t have scars. He knows that Murphy’s had a fulfilled childhood. Full of love. Caring. Murphy is older than him, wiser than him, more content than him, but so much younger. He doesn’t worry about things that much. He just lives. He is different than Connor and him. He makes the both of them feel alive. Less lonely.  
  
Daryl turns his head and looks at Connor again, watches him scrub his clothes and talk and smile and laugh. It makes him smile as well. For the first time in months he feels a certain amount of self-worth again. The loneliness is gone. He knows they won’t leave him. For the first time, in a long time, he feels like he matters again. That he isn’t alone. That there is a reason to keep on living.

* * *

 

 **Connor**  
  
He knows that he hasn’t been doing much of a good job ever since this whole thing started. Funny that. Ever since the dead started walking, he’s been working harder and harder. Sleeping less and less, protecting Murphy more and more, but somehow, it is still worth shit compared to how he’s been doing before the end of the world.  
  
There’s never enough food for the two of them. And no matter how careful he always is, he’s managed to get them almost trapped at least three times during the past couple of months. There have been a bunch of close encounters since the outbreak. The most of them have happened in Boston. He’s stopped relying on movie plans, but even the real and thought out plans never seem to work the way he wants them to.  
  
There are many nights where he can’t tell dream from reality. He sleeps less to keep a constant eye out, so that no walker will ever manage to get inside their tent _and so fucking close_ to Murphy again. But it is the lack of sleep that forces him to make mistakes, like the one time the walker has managed to get so close because he’d been dozing off for just a fucking second. And he doesn’t just sleep less and less because of the constant fear of seeing Murphy get attacked right next to him, no it’s also the _nightmares_ of seeing Murphy get attacked right next to him, nightmares that are now plaguing him even more frequently than the nightmares he’s had right after those Russians had tried to shoot Murphy in the head.  
  
The truth is that he honestly doesn’t know how much longer he would’ve been able to take the whole thing if it weren’t for them meeting Daryl that day, by the rail tracks. Angel wings on his back, like god himself had sent the guy to his rescue. Daryl makes him feel better in many many ways. It is good to know that there’s always a third man being able to keep watch when he seriously needs to crash. He loves Murphy to death, knows that his bullets are deadly, that his punches and kicks hurt and that he’s superb with a knife. But he still doesn’t trust his sibling. Can’t trust him to watch himself.  
  
Because this is _Murphy_ , his brother that had once been clumsy Murphy, Murphy who had drunk a thermal pack because he’d thought it to be water and not chemicals, Murphy who had fallen off trees and bikes and even his bed multiple times, with broken bones and all, Murphy, who’d almost walked right in front of the car after school because of his daydreaming. There is no way in hell he’s ever going to forgive himself should Murphy get himself killed while he’s asleep. So it is good to know that Daryl’s there, too. By the campfire or door or whatever, keeping an eye out, watching their asses, too.  
  
Daryl also makes Connor feel better because the man is a born hunter. The MacManus twins have been raised on a farm, they have worked on a farm. They know how to take care of a farm and they know how to take care of animals and shoot guns and sleep inside tents for days on end during stormy Irish nights. But that doesn’t change anything about the fact that they are used to feeding themselves by simply buying shit in stores. They’ve spent many years in Boston, too. A big city. With not a patch of grass near them. There are many things they can do, some of them exceptionally well, but hunting and most of all tracking certainly isn’t on that list.  
  
They are both some very impatient bastards. They love action and the element of surprise. Especially Murphy is terrible at being patient. But it is the patience that is needed during a hunt, it is the precision and talent that is needed to shoot smaller animals like squirrels and rabbits. A deer, good, Connor can shoot one, too. But those aren’t growing on trees. Trees and bushes. Another thing. Daryl knows a shitton of eatable plants. They don’t. Connor is eager to change that, stealing and reading old books late at night or during the day, whenever he can, but he’s still learning, and certainly not an expert yet.  
  
So really. Having Daryl truly is a gift. This way, they do not have to rely on canned food anymore.  
And he doesn’t have to worry about empty stores anymore.  
  
But the sad truth, and Connor hates to admit to that, is that neither the hunting nor the third pair of eyes is what matters the most to the Irishman, about their new friend.  
  
 _Why Daryl makes him feel good? Honest reason?_  
  
He is another version of Murphy.  
  
Connor is not willing to go so far and say that he’s a ‘better’ version of Murphy. He truly isn’t.  
He loves his brother to death and Murphy is still his everything, but there’s still something about Daryl.  
He has his face. This way, he can _pretend_.  
  
That this is a Murphy he doesn’t need to protect. That this is a Murphy he can trust to look after himself. More muscular. Hardened. Dirty. A true and born survivalist. Daryl doesn’t need plans. Daryl doesn’t need people. Daryl is a person of his own. He’ll be the last man standing. Connor knows that. It is something he wishes for Murphy. This is how he wants his brother to be like one day.  
  
At the same time he knows he can never see Murphy this way. Because he’s grown up with Murphy, because he knows his everything, his every cell, his every tick, his every habit. The ones that make him a clumsy edjit. The ones that make him the vulnerable little brother. But with Daryl? Daryl is a Murphy he doesn’t know. Daryl is a Murphy with secrets. Daryl is a Murphy with bad bones in his body. Daryl is a Murphy _who isn’t his brother_.  
  
For just a moment he looks up from his wet clothes and looks at the real Murphy, who is sitting there on the other side of the river, washing his clothes.  
  
The worry is right back. Immediately. The moment he fixes his eyes on him. In his stressed mind, he thinks about countless, irrational things. He sees Murphy slip and fall off the rock, hitting his head on it during the process, cracking it open, breaking his neck. He sees a walker, stumbling out from behind the bushes, getting right behind Murphy before he can shout for him to get away from there, burying its teeth in his brother’s bare neck. He sees the muzzle of a scavenger’s rifle pointed right at Murphy’s head, he hears the shoot and sees the blood and brain matter. Killed. Over a can of tomatoes.  
  
Murphy is just sitting there. Smoking a cigarette. Cleaning his clothes, and _he’s_ worried sick.  
  
It’s a crisis and he knows it. He’s always felt responsible for him, from the moment their father left them. Murphy is his soul mate, his one true love, his everything. And it’s that undying love that's slowly driving him insane. He turns his head to look at Daryl and relaxes, remembering that he doesn’t have to face this responsibility all alone anymore. Daryl is a strong soul, a loyal soul. He knows he won’t let them down. Connor also sees him as an opportunity, the only one left in this fucked up world, the only way to let go now, to find release.  
  
He just needs to look at the man next to him and he feels more relieved and relaxed than he’s felt in months. Maybe even years.  


* * *

**Connor and Daryl**  
  
 _ **Flashback**_  
  
The first time it actually takes the both of them by surprise. There aren’t many occasions where it’s just the two of them, but Murphy is asleep and snoring and Connor can’t sleep and neither can Daryl. The Irishman keeps getting plagued by nightmares of seeing his brother die in an endless amount of future scenarios, the hunter keeps getting plagued by nightmares that repeat the day of the fall of the prison. Enter Hershel. SNAP. Blood. His head is gone. Countless bullets flying around everywhere. There is Rick, next time he’s gone, the Governor on top of him, strangling him, so far away. There it is – the baby carrier. There is blood everywhere. He knows Judith is gone. Enter car. Screeching of tires. Beth is gone.  
  
He is all on his own.  
  
A loud gasp, the opening of his eyes and he _isn’t_ alone.  
  
There’s a lonely figure by the campfire.  
  
Connor is always trying to get something out of him. His story, his past, his history.  
They are used to fighting over this. They are used to fighting each other. Connor needs it to let go of his frustration over having to constantly look after someone. Daryl needs it to let go of his self-hatred and self-blame, the never ending whispering of demons that are telling him that he should’ve shot the Governor that day at the remote mill. Connor gets angry because of their fight. He doesn’t want to wake his brother up with their shouting, doesn’t want to attract walkers.  
  
If you ask them now, neither can give a definite answer to how it really came to pass.  
  
But at some point the fighting and yelling and trying to shut each other turns from punches into kisses, the shoving turns into pulling at holey shirts. They barely manage to get inside Daryl’s tent and then it happens. They do not have the time to ponder on their sexuality, on the fact that they do not know each other, that Murphy is sleeping practically right opposite them. It just happens. There is pulling on and fighting clothes, the wrestling of arms and trying to shove the other onto the sleeping bag, accompanied by countless frustrated and heated grunts and kisses. In the end, it’s Daryl who wins the fight.  
  
He’s never done this sort of thing before, not with a man, not with woman.  
  
But he isn’t stupid. Countless nights in front of some television with drunken, drugged up friends. Merle’s private collection and the wrong people. He knows more about porn and sex than he wants, enough to know how this shit is supposed to work even when all he’s ever done is jack off and look at some cheap posters at their motorcycle club every now and then. It is enough to get him going, to get him excited at the sight of bare skin, no matter who it belongs to.  
  
He refuses to let Connor touch and see, refuses to even let him move. He forces him onto his belly (more grunting, more cursing, more fighting), only looking at his back now. He does not want the other man to see his scars, both on his body and soul, so he keeps the vest on, keeps the shirt on although it is unbuttoned, it’s all about unhooked jeans and lowered underwear and _movement_.  
  
It takes him a whole bunch of minutes to force himself inside the Irishman. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care about how to be efficient, how to make it painless and easier. It’s just about letting go, it still is about violence and fighting, in the end it’s just another and new way of hurting, punishing, forgetting.  
  
A loud and shocked gasp escapes his mouth this time, and drowns Connor’s pain-filled grunt. Daryl’s surprised by the heat, surprised by the painful tightness that feels like it’s going to interrupt the blood flow in his member. But it’s the pulse that keeps him going, the tightness, the uncontrollable response. There is a shocking difference between the grasp of his own hand and actually _entering_ something that doesn’t belong to his body, that is an entirely new body, one that he is _invading_.  
  
He’s in control and also isn’t in control, it’s making him see hot and white stars, it makes him even rougher and heated, digging his fingers into suntanned hips and pressing, pressing, _pressing_ and gripping hard. Hard, that it makes the touched skin turn white and later red. He knows it’s going to leave bruises and he _wants_ to leave bruises, simply because the whole experience and feel of it is driving him absolutely crazy. With want, with the need to let go, to hurt, to _never_ let go of anyone ever again. He doesn’t want to lose anyone else after the prison, he needs to keep them close and closer and closer, needs to attach himself to someone and force them to stay with him (by forcing himself _inside_ of him, sick that, he knows, but he’s desperate). Forever. United. One. Just so he doesn’t ever have to be alone again.  
  
Connor is far more experienced because he and Murphy got started pretty early on, but all of his experience is worthless in this very moment. He’s hardly ever bottomed and that is certainly making itself known now. He is not used to the force, the feel of it, he’s too tense to get adjusted to it and feel comfortable with it. He wants to cry out in pain, wants to grunt instructions and lead Daryl through this to make it better, but the pain is too paralyzing and surprising, and he’s shocked to learn that it’s just what he actually _needs_ in this very moment.  
  
Daryl starts moving far too early, pumping his hips, he’s too heavy, too harsh, too inconsiderate and unexperienced, but it’s exactly what keeps Connor from stopping him. He needs this. Needs to let go, needs to stop being in charge, needs to _be controlled_ instead of being in control, he needs the roughness and violence of it all, needs the hatred and unadulterated masculinity. It’s not like he doesn’t love Murphy. Their relationship. Their making love. He does. More than anything. But it’s exactly that what makes him weaker and weaker, what makes him worry, what makes him lose his touch with reality. What makes him feel like he can’t go on like this.  
  
In a world that now consists of never ending death, blood, guts, gore and violence with nothing else to ground them like there had been in their old civilized world, his and Murphy’s sort of loving each other and being tender with each other just feels wrong. Dangerous. Like something that will get them killed. But he needs to be strong for Murphy, needs to feel strong and tough, needs some way and just a couple of minutes of being able to _really_ let go.

So he relishes the pain, the incredible contrast, the force and hatred, embraces it, lets it ground him. He appreciates that he’s finally allowed to be vulnerable, that Daryl is in charge, knows that his friend is going to keep them safe in here. He doesn’t worry about walkers, doesn’t worry about Daryl getting eaten, he doesn’t even care about it. It is frustrating after a while because there is no touch, no love, no looks, no tenderness. It doesn’t feel like a well-rehearsed choreography. It is cold, dry, raw, new, painful and unexperienced, but it helps. It’s the lack of touch that’s exciting him more than Murphy has managed to do in a while, no matter how much he hates to admit to that.  
  
He knows that Murphy would probably get him going just as much if he were to top, maybe even more, but there it is again, the curse, the problem. Connor is too dominant and too used to his role as planer and leader to let Murphy be on top. And Murphy never questions him, he usually obeys and acts.  
  
It’s the thought of Murphy that gets Connor through this. He feels terrible about it because it is a sin. He usually ignores the rule whenever he’s sleeping with Murphy, but with someone else it’s different, it makes the rule important again. He’s not supposed to be sleeping with a man. He does not consider himself gay. He’s only doing it because Daryl looks like Murphy and equals Murphy by this way of thinking.  
  
Adultery is also a sin. He and Murphy aren’t married. Can’t be. They are brothers. But they are very close to this sort of relationship. A promise. Made in blood and a lifetime of shared experiences. They are each other’s soul mate. Domestic life partners. Lovers. And now he’s fucking an other guy, so it damn right is adultery. He feels terrible about it but that doesn’t change anything about the fact that he needs it, for Murphy, for their survival.  
  
It’s the thought of Murphy that keeps him going, and just like the many times before he gets back to the original thought. Daryl is the Murphy he wants to have sometimes. An idealized, maybe even fucking sexualized version of his own fucking brother who he loves so much. This is a topping Murphy, a rough, violent, hateful Murphy. He closes his eyes, still grunting through each painful but wanted thrust of Daryl’s hips. Soon he can’t keep the moaned calls for his brother in anymore, the fantasy finally getting him going as well, turning the pain into pleasure.  
  
Daryl momentarily stills and stares at the man’s back in shock, surprised by the name he’s just heard. He wants to feel disgusted by it because this is fucking wrong, but he’s too aroused to let this destroy the moment, and in the end, he’s known it right from the off. Known that there’s something wrong with those two, known that they are a little _too_ close.  
  
In the end he doesn’t mind too much. The jealousy is way more present. Jealousy over the fact that these two really had each other like that. Still had each other like that in a world that was so messed up, jealousy over the fact that the man he was fucking right now was moaning the name of someone else.  
  
It doesn’t take much to get the both of them to finish. They’re both stressed and desperate for release, Daryl is far from being disciplined and Connor too far gone in his own little fantasy world. In the end it’s Daryl who comes first with a surprised grunt and shout, because this orgasm is so different compared to the ones he’s caused himself. And once again it’s the tightness and suddenness of it all that makes everything crash out of his system, and he’s actually slightly embarrassed by how much he enjoys knowing that he’s shooting his load _inside_ someone, like the way it’s supposed to be, instead of the constant frustrating having to get himself cleaned up after something like this.  
  
A dilemma, which Connor has to face this time because he comes moments later, staining the sleeping bag and himself.  
  
They do not talk about this right after it. They don’t even look at each other.  
But for the first time, in a very long while, the both of them actually feel at peace.  
  
The guilt drives Connor back outside and inside his brother’s tent later.  
It’s the first night he falls into a deep sleep without any nightmares.

* * *

**Murphy**  
  
It’s funny. They are fraternal twins. They do not look alike, their characters and habits are very different. And yet they are still very much alike when it comes to the most basic things. They’re usually in the same mood. They share dreams, they wake up at the same time and get tired at the same time. They get hungry at the same time and smoke and drink at the same time. They walk in the same rhythm, dress the same way, they share the same birthday.  
  
Up until now, they’ve always _felt_ the same way.  
  
But lately, things are changing.  
  
Connor seems more and more at peace. He seems happier. More relaxed, enthusiastic and easygoing.  
  
  
Murphy has always had a bad problem with temper. He’s always been a bit moody, usually quite happy but occasionally grumpy and pissed. Lately, he’s _always_ pissed. He snaps at Connor far too often and keeps trying to get himself into terrible fights with Daryl. The MacManus twins have always been inseparable, but lately, Murphy keeps trying to stay away from Connor. He won’t sit around the campfire with him and Daryl, gets up early or late to avoid waking up at the same time as Connor. He washes his clothes on his own, refuses to eat Daryl’s game until Connor _forces_ him to eat.  
  
He’s always been bad at hiding how he feels. And now, he’s terribly bad at hiding the fact that he is jealous and frustrated.  
  
Every night, Connor tries to kiss him. To hold him, be gentle with him. And he’s back to touching and stroking his chest, back to massaging his shoulders and scalp, moving his fingers through his hair, whispering that everything’s going to be alright, that he’s going to keep him safe, that god is guiding them and that no walkers are going to get them, that there’s hope. Every night, Murphy keeps trying to turn the gentle exchanges into more heated ones, fisting Connor’s shirt and trying to undress him, trying to trail the kisses down his chest and bruised hips and thighs.  
  
Every night, Connor grabs Murphy by his shirt to stop him.  
  
And every night, Murphy turns away with huffs that are getting angrier and more frustrated each time, until he stops the attempts completely, until he stops Connor from starting anything at all.  
  
Connor keeps disappearing more and more, late at night, inside the other tent.  
  
Murphy can hear them more and more. The slapping of flesh, the grunts, gasps and moans.  
  
The first time he hears it, he allows himself to cry.  
  
Feels his heart ache and spilt in two, because this is _Connor_ no longer wanting him, because this is _Connor_ no longer viewing him as his everything, when he still does.  
  
The next couple of times he hears it, he just gets angry.  
  
************  
  
They’re still doing their job. The world may have gone to shit, but it’s just making it even more prone to the evil doings of bad men. They have killed four groups so far. Maybe it makes them feel a bit bad about it now, simply because there aren’t many people left and each murder just brings humanity closer to extinction. But the truth is that they do not want the world to be ruled by rapists, cannibals and murderers and their future children. It’s frustrating to see the real face of mankind now. People, who had not yet pushed the bounds and crossed over into true corruption in their old world are now and constantly showing their true faces. Killing. Raping. Stealing. Murdering.  
  
Sure, everyone is trying to survive these days. But murdering people over food?  
They still consider that a serious sin. So this is what they’re still doing now.  
Delivering the souls of rapists, murderers, cannibals.  
  
They’ve been tracking a group of the latter for a couple of days now. Tracking their burned down campfires, footprints.  
  
It’s just like back in the day. Their reward is the knowledge that they’re saving lives of innocent good people who are trying to survive in a more decent and human way. Their reward is the good gear, ammo and food (not cannibal food of course, yikes, poor souls) of their usually heavily armed and equipped victims.  
  
It’s supposed to be Daryl’s first hit.  
  
It makes Murphy far more snarky and pissy than usual. He doesn’t like it at all, hates it that Daryl is no longer just sharing Connor’s sex life with him, but also _their_ job, _their_ opinions, _their_ calling.  
  
They’re watching the camp from a distance, making out the leader, growling disgusted remarks on their victims’ food and eating habits. Connor explains their way of ‘delivering evil to god’ to Daryl. The hunter doesn’t seem to care, even insulting their beliefs just like always, which makes Murphy curse and threaten him with his fist. But as he does it he can see something in Daryl’s eyes, something that is obviously driving the hunter nevertheless. A need to kill evil men, equal to their need. It may not be his true calling, but there obviously is a reason. Connor has seen it, too. The very reason why he’s let Daryl in after all.  
  
After some more muffled fighting and Connor’s constant trying to interrupt his sibling and lover, the eldest of the three tells them about his plan for this hit. They are supposed to take the cannibals down at night. Using the darkness and Daryl’s knowledge of their surroundings as advantage.  
  
Murphy disagrees.  
  
They are back at their camp after some walking and zigzagging their way back. Connor, busy planning their hit to the last detail, Daryl, busy taking care of their weapons and sharpening their knives, hoping to save ammo.  
  
Murphy informs them that he’s away for a bit because he needs to take a shit in the woods and no, he _doesn’t need Connor to fockin watch his ass during something like this.  
  
_ He runs all the way back to the cannibal camp. He knows it is dangerous and foolish to do this on his own, he could end up as a human happy meal and all, but he does not care, he _needs_ to do this. He mutters a quick prayer on his way through the woods. He needs to blow off steam, needs to stop Daryl from taking this part of their life as well. This is something he’s not willing to share.  
  
Murphy sneaks his way up to the camp, as close as he can get, walking and crouching the way he had seen Daryl do it. He watches them for a while, hears them laugh and joke around and talk about their latest victims. He waits for them to get closer together, and then it happens. He leaves his hideout behind the tree and approaches them with guns blazing, placing precise headshots and shots to chests and bellies. These days, no one is used to fast moving enemies with guns anymore. People are used to undead, shuffling  slow corpses. Not hitmen. And he’s certainly using it to his advantage.  
  
It takes less than a minute and the entire camp has fallen, with only a couple of men still alive. Murphy is breathing heavily because of the adrenaline, the feel of power, the knowledge that he has done this alone. He takes his time to kick the guns of the men away, the men who are still alive and trying to kill him for this. Some are begging for mercy, others are cursing him to the high heavens. Murphy starts praying as he walks around the camp and grabs each man by his head to stab him, delivering him to god but no longer wasting any more bullets.

Back in the old days he and Connor had used to shoot everyone in the head, and although the head now needed to be destroyed more than ever, he couldn’t waste too much ammo anymore. Because now bullets were scarce, so knives would have to do. He only saves one bullet for the leader, forcing him to get back on his knees, forcing him to pray for his souls a he says their prayer, out loud, finishing it with a final headshot.  
  
It’s the first time he’s said the prayer on his own, it’s the first hit he’s done on his own.  
  
It doesn’t make him feel any better.  
It makes him want to do the same to Daryl, because he’s the reason things have changed so much between him and his beloved brother.

* * *

He’s already seen it coming, because he’s used to Connor freaking out over shit like this, but he actually has to admit that part of him has expected Connor not to care. Why would he? He is fucking an other guy now, right? A guy who looks like him but who’s stronger, more muscular, tougher, better suited for this world. A guy with his face, who is better than him. Probably fucks better than him, too.  
  
But fuck it, Connor is still so far from _not_ caring about him anymore.  
  
He completely freaks out. Daryl is sitting by the campfire, smoking a cigarette, cleaning his crossbow and pretending they’re not there and not screaming at each other, but oh they do.  
  
“How could ye do that? Are ye fucking crazy? They’re fuckin cannibals and there’s other fuckin monsters roamin te woods and yer doin that shit on yer own?! They could’ve got ye, they could’ve eaten you and killed you and…”  
  
“I did what I had ta do ye fuckin wimp, while ye was busy fucking yer girlfriend and acting like a chick at least I had the balls ta get this shit done and listened ta god! Don’ act like ye even noticed I was gon..”  
  
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because then he feels the hard slap to his face, a slap that shocks him into silence.  
  
He’s staring at Connor, because he can’t believe this.  
  
They’ve gotten into many fights. It’s the way they are. Irish. Full of temper, hot-blooded, rough, stubborn, assholes.  
  
There’ve been many scuffles and rolling around on the floor and shoving and insulting each other, but Connor has _never_ really hit him. Not so hard. Not so brutal.  
  
“Don’ you ever say something like that again or I swear ta fuckin god” his brother warns him. His eyes full of anger, hurt, disappointment.  
  
Murphy explodes. They are back to scuffling and screaming at each other. It takes only seconds and then they are rolling around on the ground, grunting insults at each other, yanking at shirts. Then it suddenly overwhelms Murphy again, the hurt, the disappointment, the fear and frustration.  
  
He still won’t tell Connor how much he’s hurt because of his betrayal, his cheating, although he could. He’s lying on top of his twin and pressing him into the dirt, he could really hurt him for the slap and all the other things Connor has put him through, but even now he’s too kind, too loyal, even now he can’t bring himself to hurt the person he loves the most. So he does the only thing he can, crash their lips together and kiss him for all it’s worth, let him feel how _much_ he truly misses him, their being together, their former connection, everything that is missing ever since they met Daryl.  
  
“’m sorry” he whines and kisses his twin even more, getting desperate and clingy.  
  
Connor widens his eyes and looks up at Murphy in surprise, shocked by the suddenness of it all, shocked by what he can feel his brother feel, by what he can hear his brother think. And he kisses him back with all the force he has, all the love he has left, digging his fingers into Murphy’s hair and then kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his temples.  
  
“I know, Murph. I know.’m sorry, too.”  
  
And when he finally pauses for a short moment and just lets Murphy hug him so tight he cannot breathe, he can see Daryl watching them. Jealousy and some sort of sadness showing in his eyes.

* * *

 

 **Connor and Murphy**  
  
They’re lying inside their tent, next to each other, Murphy sprawled out across Connor’s chest, running his fingers through the couple of hairs there. Connor is rewarding the motion with equal stroking movements, moving his fingers through Murphy’s hair, stroking his head, cheek pressed to his sibling’s forehead.  
  
It is more honest this time, more loving and true.  
  
“For a second I thought I lost ye out there. I couldn’ find ye.”  
  
Murphy presses his lips together and swallows a bit, nodding.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
There is a long pause right then and there, then Murphy looks up at his twin.  
  
“I didn’ wanna let him in” he confesses, looking Connor straight in the eye.  
  
The older MacManus twin takes a deep breath, returning the glace, just staring at his brother for a long while.  
  
“He’s our friend, Murph.”  
  
“Yer fuckin him.”  
  
“He’s not replacing ye.”  
  
Murphy swallows, giving in to one of their silent conversations.  
  
 _Does he make you happy?  
Yes.  
And I don’t? Not anymore.  
You still make me happy.  
Doesn’t feel like it._  
  
“Don’ think fer one second…that I’ll ever stop loving you, brother dear” Connor says, in Gaelic.  
  
Murphy just continues to stare.  
Still questioning him.  
  
Connor snorts gently.  
  
His stubborn, _stubborn_ brother. Risking his life, just to get a fucking point across.  
  
Connor smiles gently and moves his head up a bit to kiss that frown away, to make his sibling feel better about the whole thing. He knows he’ll always be a good brother, but he’s aware that he’s been a terrible lover lately. But he’s feeling better now, feels fixed again. Today has almost given him a heart attack. He’s going to kick Murphy’s ass into the ground, should he ever do something like that again, but it has shown him one thing, reminded him of one thing. Murphy is not as fragile and weak as he thinks he is. The opposite. He is his twin brother. They are one and the same. Murphy can watch his ass just fine. Whether he wants him to or not.  
  
He finally gives in, looking outside for a moment to see the silhouette of Daryl by the campfire. He knows he does not need to fear attacks of walkers right now so he finally gives in and kisses Murphy more eagerly, and when his brother tries to let his hand travel down once more, he won’t stop him this time. He smiles into the kiss and dips his tongue into Murphy’s mouth, moaning at the pleasant taste of it. Daryl and his brother may look alike, but Murphy tastes so much more different compared to Daryl. Sweeter, smokier from their years of heavy chain smoking.  
  
Connor lets Murphy explore with his hands. His sibling has always been the physical one, always excited to touch, feel, explore, move. He combs Connor’s chest hair, strokes his chest and belly, trails two fingers down the line of hair that leads him to the waistband of Connor’s boxers.  
  
They are still not used to the Georgian heat. If it weren’t for the constant danger and need to flee they would be sleeping naked. Probably walking around naked, too. If it weren’t for Daryl and the other few groups of people they occasionally cross paths with. They’re sleeping in their underwear, much in contrast to Daryl, who’s always sleeping in jeans and shirts (he leaves them unbuttoned when he’s with Connor, but Murphy doesn’t know that and doesn’t want to know about that).  
  
So there is not much fabric between them, between Murphy’s hand and Connor’s bulge. He teases at first, though. Sneaking his hand into Connor’s boxers but never touching him, just stroking his thighs, tickling the sensitive skin there, moving his fingertips against the heated flesh until his brother is getting twitchy.  
  
It is some sort of punishment for the weeks of rejection, for the weeks of having to listen to Connor getting fucked by someone else, weeks of unchanneled sexual frustration. It takes sheer seconds and the older MacManus is growing hard and starts to shiver under the gentle touch, simply because he is no longer used to associating sex with this.  He is used to Daryl’s unforgiving grabbing hands, used to rough pounding and the absence of love, the kind of sex and handling he’s needed. At least for a while. It has hardened him as well, hardened him enough to make him think he’s finally ready for this again, ready to give in, ready to be weak for once, to let go, to stop and give.  
  
He hisses when Murphy starts touching him after having freed him of his boxers, gentle hands fondling him like the expert that he is. It is such a sweet contrast, compared to Daryl’s inexperience that can be quite frustrating sometimes. The hunter has never touched him like that at all, never stroked _any_ part of his body, despite the fact that Connor wants him to sometimes. They’re never looking at each other like the way Murphy is looking at him now.  
  
Murphy is not ashamed to look him in the eye during sex. Quite the opposite. He can’t _stop_. Making sure he’s doing the right thing, touching him the right way, reading what he wants and acting it out. For a pretty long while he just jerks Connor off, drawing out some hitched sounds and gentle moans, making him snap and crane his neck in pleasure, digging his toes into the fabric of the sleeping bag.  
  
The way he’s presenting himself just makes Murphy hungry and after kissing the neck tattoo and nibbling on it he finally starts to trail the kisses down Connor’s tanned and slightly dirty body, further down and down until Connor starts moaning louder, which makes Murphy pinch the hollow of his knee.  
  
Connor curses and smacks the side of Murphy’s head which makes the younger MacManus chuckle, but they both get the message. They need to be quiet. The younger of the two then continues his trail of kisses, stopping at the countless bruises of harsh fingers on his brother’s hips and thighs. Those aren’t the only bruises Daryl has left on Connor’s body. Marking his territory, a territory which wasn’t supposed to belong to him.  
  
Murphy licks and kisses them, trying to make them disappear, to claim it right back. Whenever he touches those bruises Connor moans and gasps a little louder. Murphy tries to keep telling himself that he’s doing that because it hurts, but he knows that they are doing the opposite to his brother ( he loves them, sick bastard).  
  
He eventually replaces his moving hand with his mouth, trying really hard not to wonder if Daryl has done the same, blown Connor.  
  
Of course the hunter hasn’t, but just for a moment Connor tries to picture it. It’s not really hard to do it, considering that Daryl and Murphy look alike. He knows it is wrong but he finds it even more arousing, so much that he can already feel his balls tense, the pressure building up.  
  
“Murph” he grunts, not only to remind himself that he’s having sex with _Murphy_ after what feels like eternity, but also to stop his sibling from truly sucking him off. He grabs Murphy by both his shoulders to pull him back up. His twins’ mouth is shiny with spit and he licks it away (always with the fucking tongue, why does that always make him look like a fuckin kitten? Fuck, did he love this face). Connor does not want to come like this, the look on his face says, and with a little eyeroll, Murphy lets him know that he understands. He sits back up and quickly gets rid of his boxers as well, which had tented in the meantime, too.  
  
Murphy nudges Connor’s left thigh and tries to get him to scoot so he can lie down, but Connor suddenly grabs him by his upper arms and forces him to stay where he is. Seated on his calves, between Connor’s legs, erection pointed right at him.  
  
Connor licks his lips, looking at it for a moment, only to look back in Murphy’s face.  
  
“You do it.”  
  
Murphy cocks an eyebrow.  
  
“What?”  
  
Connor kicks at Murphy’s thigh and places each foot to his sibling’s left and right, bent knees.  
  
“You do the fuckin this time.”  
  
The younger MacManus snorts, the look on his face saying it all.  
  
 _You’re kidding, right._  
  
Connor grunts in frustration.  
  
“Jus do it when I fuckin ask ye to, alrigh. Jesus fuckin Christ.”  
  
Murphy stares at Connor a little while longer, looking at him, really questioning him, until he bows his head a little.  
  
“Okay…” he mumbles and then quickly searches their bags for their stuff, the small bottle of lube that has made its way to the very bottom of the bag by now, simply because it has been so long. Connor turns his head and watches Murphy rummage through the bag, remembering it all too clearly. All those fucking nights he’s been thinking about stealing it, no ‘borrowing’ it. He and Murphy never use condoms and never will. They know it would probably make it even easier for them, but they need the skin to skin contact, need to be as intimate and close as possible.  
  
Connor and Daryl haven’t used _anything_ at all so far, although Connor doesn’t like the many problems connected to that. He’s still sore from it, he can still hardly enjoy it, but he’s still refused to talk to the hunter about the issue, he’s still not taught him anything. He thinks Daryl doesn’t care anyway, that he doesn’t want to learn. And somehow, it’s become a thing. Their thing. Their way of fucking. The pain, the roughness, the heat, the difference. It’s never supposed to be loving.  
  
He watches Murphy slick himself up, watches the motion of his hands, the naturalness of it all. He doubts that Daryl will ever feel that comfortable with his body, himself, doubts that he’ll ever learn the true meaning and function of sex, although it is a real shame. And as Connor watches Murphy, he’s still thinking about stealing the lube for real, next time.  
  
Right now, the lust for Murphy wins though, because it is finally really erotic again. They’ve had many forms of sex. Rough sex (although still not as rough as sex with Daryl because Murphy’d never hurt him), drunk sex, shower sex, tender sex, sleepy sex, early morning sex, late night sex, different positions, hate sex, loving sex, tender sex, birthday sex. Most of the time it’s just been fucking for the sake of being together, the real erotic sex with a deep meaning is rare.  
  
Thankfully, this is one of those.  
  
Connor watches Murphy’s every motion, the little, concentrated frown that makes him smile as his sibling places himself back on top of him and between his legs. Connor is very eager to make it all about touch, all about looks, all the things he cannot get from Daryl when he’s with him. Their breathing is more labored by now , their pupils blown as Murphy lies down, still staring at Connor.  
  
“Are ye sure?” he gasps, moving his hip a little because he is more than aroused.  
  
Connor rolls his eyes in frustration and then nods.  
  
“Fuckin do it already, else ‘m gonna come with-fuckin-out ye.”  
  
“Alright, calm yer fuckin arse” Murphy complains and then tries to reach down, between Connor’s legs, under his balls to prep him, but Connor suddenly grasps his hand to stop him.  
  
“Don’t” he demands, looking Murphy right in the eye.  
  
Murphy frowns, a bit shocked by the request.  
  
“Really?” he whispers, not quite believing it.  
  
But Connor gets angry and grabs his behind to dig his fingers into his skin, pressing him towards him.  
  
“Murph” he grunts in frustration, and after having made sure that Connor really means it, Murphy finally gives in and starts thrusting, making the older MacManus groan a little and then turn his head to the side.  
  
Murphy reaches for the lube twice during the beginning, slicking himself up as good as he can because he’s afraid of hurting Connor. They’ve never done it without the prep before, and he isn’t too sure why his brother suddenly wants to do it this way. He remembers their early beginnings, when they hadn’t known jackshit about the whole thing. When they had been bloody amateurs and hormonal, horny teenagers.  
  
Shit had fucking _hurt_.  
  
So why the fuck would he…?  
  
Even now he can see Connor squeeze his eyes shut, feels him wriggle his hip, feels the muscles tense and cramp but Connor doesn’t ask him to stop as he forces himself inside. There are many things he doesn’t understand about the whole thing, not just the no prep question. Why Connor suddenly wants to bottom is another question.  
  
 _Years of being on the receiving end. Years of living with Connor’s never ending bossiness. And now this?_  
  
Not that he’s complaining though. Deep deep down he’s always wished to be on the giving end a bit more often. They do not consider themselves gay. They’ve even slept with a few women every now and then, allowing each other to go ahead. They love sleeping with each other, love having sex with each other and know that they will always be partners. But they still won’t deny that it feels nice to be fucking something every now and then. Something _real_. To be inside someone, to listen to nature’s true call, to do it the way it is supposed to work. They know that what they are doing is wrong, that their bodies have not been designed for this sort of sex. Most of the time they do not care.  
  
But he still loves doing it the way it is supposed to work. Not just touch but real movement, real friction, real tightness, the way he’s experiencing it now. There haven’t been that many occasions where Connor has been on the receiving end. They’ve been drunk most of the time, or it has happened whenever Connor’s lost a bet. It’s driving Murphy crazy right now, and just for a moment he wonders if it’s their birthday. He wants to keep it slow and steady because of the lack of preparation, but in the end he will always be impatient and driven by emotions, so he soon can’t stop himself from grinding his hips.  
  
Connor’s eyes are no longer squeezed shut but still closed as he enjoys it, gentle moans and words of appreciation and love escaping his mouth. It is fulfilling and frustrating at the same time, simply because Murphy is so _loving_ again, when he’s used to it being rough, when he’s so desperate. Murphy keeps kissing him everywhere, his mouth, forehead, cheeks, chest and neck, nibbling at the tattoo once more, biting a bit harder each time Connor digs his fingers into the skin of his bottom to pull him deeper inside.  
  
The older MacManus is getting more and more desperate, urging his sibling on to pump his hips more, harder, faster. Because then it’s really crashing down on him, the realization that Murphy’s stupid stubbornness and the hit today could’ve gotten him killed, which would’ve been his fault, because he is fucking an other guy, because Murphy had felt so lonely and betrayed. The realization is crashing down on him that he’s been pushing Murphy away for far too long, that it’s been forever since their last coupling, he realizes how much he’s missed that. The kissing. The loving. The sharing, the being united.  
  
And at the same time it’s also the other man outside that’s making him desperate, and for a moment he even stops burying his face in Murphy’s hot and sweaty neck and looks up instead. He can still see the lonely figure there by the campfire, alone, keeping watch, protecting them, so mysterious, so haunted, so alone. And just for a second he’s back inside the other tent, feels his face pressed into the sleeping bag, and he’s face down, unable to do anything, see anything, give anything back, rough and hard fingers digging into his skin, leaving bruises, the short, throaty grunts and the heavy breathing.  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
He is royally fucked.  
  
Connor lets out a frustrated grunt literally seconds before he’s coming and spins them around, pressing Murphy into the sleeping bag, pulling him out, entering instead. For a moment his brother winces at the suddenness and burning pain of it all and Connor kisses him, apologizing into his mouth to which Murphy responds with a reassuring squeeze to his arm and then Connor starts moving in short and abrupt thrusts, forcing hitched sounds and grunts out of his brother.  
  
The older MacManus doesn’t fix his eyes on Murphy and burrows his face in the sleeping bag instead, concentrating on the mental image for a moment, focusing on the secret wish with each hard thrust. In this secret wish he’s fucking Daryl like that, lying on top of him instead of underneath him, touching him all over like he never can, even reaching for his groin and then jerking him off.  
  
Murphy moans in pleasure and calls out, groaning his name, obviously needing more. They’re both close and Connor knows that Murphy is closer, so he keeps his mind fixed on his little fantasy to get there faster and then forces himself to get out of it by snapping his eyes open, raising his head and then pressing his forehead to Murphy’s to look him right in the eye. Now it’s just about Murphy and him again, he doesn’t even know who Daryl Dixon is. It’s just the two of them, inside this tent, at the end of the world, fucking for all it’s worth.  
  
His thrusts are getting less abrupt and more fluid now although they are still pretty forceful, his hand moving faster and his fingers wrapping more tightly around his brother’s member and then Murphy is coming first, shouting his name once more which Connor silences with a heated and sloppy kiss. And then he’s coming too, moaning into said kiss, thrusting harder and harsher until his orgasm finally stops, making him slow down, break the kiss and catch breath.  
  
Both brothers let out yet another string of gentle moans and curses and then they finally fall silent, breathing in and out, looking each other in the eye and letting it pass. Murphy yawns after a while and wriggles his hips in pleasure, which makes Connor smile and chuckle with a loving look on his face. He wipes Murphy’s black and wet fringe out of his eyes and then kisses him gently, multiple times, on his mouth, his nose, his cheeks.  
  
“Don’ ever do that again” he warns once more, reminding Murphy of the fact that his one man hit a couple of hours ago has been wrong.  
  
Murphy frowns a little and then gives in to a mischievous grin.  
  
“Wha, fuck yer arse without prep? ‘t was yer idea…”  
  
Connor rewards him with another smack to the side of his head, to which Murphy responds with a playful “Ow!” and a gentle bite to the side of Connor’s neck.  
  
“Murph” Connor says, in his dictatorial ‘big brother’ voice, making it obvious that this is important to him. He then pulls out and raises his head a bit to stop Murphy from licking and kissing his neck and playing, forces him to take this seriously. Murphy sighs and then nods after a while.  
  
“Okay. Fuck. I won’ do it again.”  
  
Connor smirks and strokes Murphy’s hair once more.  
  
“Dat’s the spirit, brother dear.”  
  
“Then promise me he won’t join us on god’s mission.”  
  
They look at each other. Connor sighs and looks away.  
  
“We need a third one ta pull this through. ‘s always been a three men mission.”  
  
Murphy growls.  
  
“Except I can’t work with people I can’t fuckin stand.”  
  
“Ye didn’ like Rome too much.”  
  
“Cos he wasn’ Roc” Murphy grumbles and looks at Connor again. “And ye didn’ fuck any of them.”  
  
Connor starts laughing although he doesn’t want to, shivering a bit.  
  
“Are ye fuckin disgusting. Me? Fuckin people like fuckin _Roc_?”  
  
Murphy tries to stay serious, but he ends up cackling at the thought.  
  
“Well, I remember Donna tellin us quite a few stories.”  
  
“Aye! Exactly!” Connor exclaims and then suddenly looks down between them, which makes his sibling frown.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
He feels how Connor moves his hip away from his ass and looks down on them as well, automatically fixing his eyes on his brother’s groin.  
  
“My..my dick. I think ye broke it. The images of seein Roc fuck _anybody_ , I…I think it’s broken. Ain’t ever gonna get it back up again.”  
  
They both start laughing, full-heartedly, the first real occasion for that since the outbreak.

* * *

**Daryl  
  
** He doesn’t even want the fucking asshole around. Sure, sometimes he likes Murphy. Sometimes he appreciates his company. Sometimes he enjoys his little fake fantasy that Murphy is his little brother as well. Sometimes he tries to keep telling himself that Murphy is Carl all grown up. But right now, he hates the fucker. Hates him because he’s the reason it’s been weeks since Connor last came into his tent, hates him because he can hear their moans, the slapping of flesh, the whispered words of love ever couple of nights whereas he’s all alone inside his tent. Alone, ridden with nightmares, reminded of the fact that he has no more family, no one to fuck, no one to love.  
  
He hates Murphy because the kid is following him, and ‘ _trying t’get ta know him’_ right now, asking him about the crossbow, hunting, tracking. He just wants to hunt some small animals for dinner. Some squirrels, maybe even rabbits because strangely enough, they’re Connor’s favorite. He’s still secretly trying to impress Murphy’s brother, with food, protection, anything. Right now he’s even trying to impress him by taking care of his stupid brother, teaching him a few things.  
  
They’re running into these three guys by sheer coincidence. Murphy is oblivious to the whole thing at first, oblivious but still cautious. He’s the way they usually are, checking people out before deciding whether they should kill them or help them. They look innocent on the outside. Hell, they probably were innocent before the whole thing, before having been mislead by this evil motherfucker. He doesn’t care. What makes it even more ridiculous is the fact that they do not even seem to recognize him.  
  
None of it matters.  
  
He shoots an arrow at one of them and throws his knife at another before they can really draw their guns. Murphy is forced to shoot the third man, simply because he is about to shoot at them. Murphy goes buck wild and starts shoving at Daryl, yelling at him and asking him what the fuck is wrong with him, why he’s shooting people before they even got the chance to say something. For a moment Daryl just stands there and stares at the dead on the ground, fists clenching more and more.  
  
For a second Murphy considers this his chance, thinks that this is the excuse he needs to get rid of Daryl. Shoot him. Take revenge on him for getting between him and Connor. _He’s shot innocent people, Conn,_ he wants to say, wants to justify it, his fingers twitching, in the direction of the trigger of his gun. _He lost it, Conn. He’s dangerous. I was scared, he could’ve shot me,_ he wants to play the card, simply because he doesn’t know the man, doesn’t want him here.  
  
Then Daryl speaks.  
  
“They killed my people” he says quietly.  
  
“They wha?” Murphy asks angrily, frowning, getting closer, still ready to react in case Daryl really loses it.

“They fuckin killed my people, you deaf?!” he’s suddenly yelling, shoving Murphy right back.  
  
“They rolled right up to our gates! They… they shot my people up like we were fish in a fucking tank, Hershel…Rick….”  
  
Murphy is actually shocked, staring at Daryl with wide eyes. The hunter is suddenly so furious, so angry, and at the same time, close to tears. He shoves Murphy away and then suddenly starts kicking at the bodies, harder and harder, letting go of all sorts of unchanneled anger and frustration.  
  
“You sick! Mother!fuckers! YOU KILLED EVERYONE! EVERYONE I KNOW IS DEAD, WE HAD A BABY!” he’s screaming again, kicking harder and harder until he suddenly just stops, lets his head hang, and sobs.  
  
“They’re all dead.”  
  
And he lets everything out, lets the tears escape him, he doesn’t fight the sobs, doesn’t fight the fact that he is a broken, lonely man. He misses his entire group so much, misses their respect, their near, the tightness of their group. Seeing Connor go back to Murphy, seeing them each day, hearing them each night has made it worse, but seeing those three bastards today has finally broken him. He remembers the last time he’s seen the very last member of his group, Beth, the last person to leave him alone, alone in this fucked up world.  
  
He can’t take it anymore.  
  
He’s thought that being with these two idiots would make him feel better, and for a while this has worked, but their relationship is just making it even more obvious. What kind of relationship he has lost, what kind of relationship he will never have.  
  
He is the last of his group. The last man standing. Countless times have they told him this. Admired his ‘strength’, his survival instinct.  
The true nightmare. The cruelest curse. He’s the _last one_. The _last man_ standing.  
  
He startles violently when he feels the touch. It’s shocking, it hurts, but he’s too emotionally comprised to fight it off.  
  
Murphy has placed a hand on his shoulder.  
  
He is stroking it with his thumb.  
  
Then, after a moment, he walks around him and wraps his arms around him.  
  
Daryl has seen many occasions where the younger MacManus has acted like that around Connor. He knows he is the physical one. He knows he does the whole faggy shit like cuddling and letting his feelings out and all that crap. He knows it, but never in a million years would he’ve thought that Murphy would do something like that with him. He does not respond to the hug, doesn’t do anything but fight the tears and hurt, but deep deep down, he appreciates the gesture. No matter how surprising it is.

* * *

**Connor and Daryl**  
  
“You should talk t’him. I’m afraid he might do something stupid.”  
  
He’s actually surprised when he hears Murphy say this. He’s been looking forward to another gentle, loving night, now that he’s feeling better again. He’s really surprised to hear that Murphy’s accompanied Daryl on his hunt instead of going fishing, and he’s even more surprised to hear about what’s happened.  
  
The most shocking thing though, is that Murphy is now even _asking_ him to go be with Daryl tonight.  
  
He’s happy to feel and really see how much their relationship has changed after their little post outbreak crisis. He’s so happy that they are back to being in love, back to being less stressed, back to being almost at peace. So much, that Murphy’s even okay with him going back to Daryl?  
  
Wow.  
  
He actually needs a moment to let that sink in.  
  
*********  
  
It’s always the same, whenever he enters Daryl’s tent. The hunter will always try to make him leave, he will always say the same stupid thing: “T’hell do’yah want? Getcha ass outta my tent”, no matter how many times they’ve fucked. There will always be some fighting going on between them, scuffling and flying fists and kicks until Connor manages to lie down. It’s their kind of foreplay, their kind of justifying what they are about to do.  
  
Although Connor doesn’t enter this tent to do _this_ tonight.  
  
They’re lying next to each other for a very long while, listen to Murphy rummage through their cans outside as Connor keeps staring at Daryl, never stopping. The hunter feels freaked out by it, annoyed and angry, but he’s used to this weird thing both Irishmen got going, they are always all about touches and looks. It takes a while and then he’s talking, mentioning the thing Daryl’s been fearing all day.  
  
“Murph told me ‘bout those three guys ye met down by the lake.”  
  
Daryl gives him an angry glare.  
  
“They killed yer people?”  
  
Silence. More angry staring.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
The hunter reacts the way he always does. Pushing pushing pushing and fighting to the death. He’s still angry from his murder, his very first hit. But this time it is different. Murphy isn’t with him but Connor. _Connor_ is with him again, inside this tent, at night, after weeks of being left alone. _He_ is asking, this new person, this new person he has allowed himself to let in and love, although he’s been so determined to never let anyone close ever again. Not after the prison. Not after losing so many loved ones.  
  
But it’s still Connor next to him, who looks so familiar, feels so familiar, makes him feel like _that_.  
  
And suddenly he starts talking. Says more words than he’s said in all the weeks of their companionship combined. He tells Connor about the Atlanta group, the farm and the prison. He tells Connor about all his people. Rick and his children, baby Judith and Carl. Hershel and his two daughters. Glenn. Carol. Tyreese and Sasha. All the other children, all the lives lost. He tells him about their life back at the prison, their home, tells him about its fall, the tank, the guns, the Governor, those people.  
  
He’s trying to keep the emotions inside but he’s tired of fighting. He can’t take it anymore. In the end he’s just so angry, so much that he snaps again and tries to get into a fight with Connor just for the sake of fighting. Connor lets him. Just like the countless times before. He hardly fights back, lets him bruise and hurt and take control of him, even when he claims something he’s been missing for days now, which has made him so frustrated and on edge in the first place.  
  
He replays the countless sounds of slapping flesh and loving words, remembers each night he’s heard Murphy fuck the man he considers his property, his lucky charm, his life-saver. The memory urging him on, making his hips pump harder, his fingers dig deeper into the already abused skin of Connor’s hips. He doesn’t fight the angry tears that escape his eyes and fall down with each abrupt thrust and grunt, and maybe they’re not angry tears, maybe they’re just there because he’s hurting much more than he can ever make Connor hurt to channel it, to let go, to forget.

* * *

**Connor**  
  
Things must’ve been going too good for god’s liking. He’s managed to get Daryl to open himself up to them. Murphy finally accepts the fact that just sometimes, he needs to be with Daryl, spent the night with Daryl when it’s getting too much for him, when he’s too stressed and too far gone in his thinking world, or when Daryl is about to slip, about to lose it, because his loss still haunts him to this day.  
  
They’ve finally managed to arrange this fucked up triangle thing. Connor and Murphy are even content enough to say that yes, they are happy, they are at peace, the both of them see Daryl as their blessing, their savior, sent from god himself, with the angel wings on his back. Murphy finally understands and appreciates the fact that Daryl is the only one who can ground Connor, who can keep him here, who can give him this strange thing that he just can’t give his sibling because it is so dark. Daryl is still pretty depressed and frustrated and angry, but he’s slowly getting used to the new situation, he’s still just so thanktul these two Irish weirdos are with him and keeping him safe, he even has to admit that he likes Murphy, now that the Connor thing is off the table.  
  
It’s still new, it still takes some time to get used to it, but they’re making do.  
  
At least until now.  
  
It is the end of the world Connor’s supposed to be used to things going to shit as soon as they feel safe and happy.  
  
Out of all the things that could’ve happened, that could’ve turned up to destroy their new life, it’s a rusty nail that almost destroys his future plans and hopes.  
  
Just _one fucking_ rusty nail.  
  
They’re checking out an old abandoned farmhouse when it happens. Eager to maybe use it as their new camp. They’ve split up, each of them searching a floor and a certain amount of rooms. It's then when Murphy’s angry, loud and colorful string of curses suddenly echoes through the entire building. He won’t stop cursing and bumping about upstairs, knocking shit over until Connor decides to head upstairs, but not after having exchanged a worried and curious glance with Daryl.  
  
The hunter just shrugs and says “He ain’t my problem”, entering the next room with his crossbow raised, leaving Connor to it.  
  
Murphy, the clumsy fuckin edjit, has managed to step on a rusty nail. Not just that. The thing has gone right through his shoe and entire foot, exiting it on the other side. He’s quite the lucky bastard, Connor says at first, because it doesn’t look like the nail has injured any large blood vessels or tendons. Not the big ones. Fucker’s just gone right through.  
  
They are back to fighting over it, cursing at each other and trying to shut each other up with a few annoyed shoves to hard chests. Connor is shouting at Murphy for being such a clumsy idiot who can’t even see a nail that is large as balls, Murphy is shouting at Connor for being such an annoying fucking mother hen and that it’s been his schtupid plan to send him up here to this fucking dusty attic of doom a la Amityville Horror. They're arguing until Daryl starts yelling at them from downstairs, telling them to shut the fuck up or else he’s gonna shoot some arrows in their asses.  
  
Murphy yells back at him and tells him to go fuck himself, he’s not going to get another fuckin MacManus ass after claiming one that isn’t even his, there are a few more shouted insults and curses and Connor's trying to stop them, but in the end they go back to business as usual.  
  
For two days it works out, then it goes downhill.  
  
Murphy won’t stop limping. He’s stubborn at first, constantly telling Connor to fuck off and Daryl to shut up whenever he’s commenting on his slowness. He is brave at first, eager to hide his pain and not show any weakness, especially not around Daryl. But after day two, he’s having a _hard_ time. Because his foot hurts really bad. Especially since he’s still forcing himself to walk normally, although he can actually hardly take it. He is eager to wash his socks multiple times per day when no one is watching, simply because they are getting wetter with blood and pus each day.  
  
At the beginning of day three, he can’t take it anymore. The pain is unbearable, he feels hot and dizzy, every movement hurts.  
  
Connor notices immediately.  
Connor loses it, the second he sees the wound.  
  
It’s infected. He can see the bloody, angry flesh, sees the blood, the pus, the darkened veins.  
Murphy cannot walk another single mile, he needs to rest immediately.  
  
The next two days are the worst in Connor’s life. He is more than freaked out by how fast this whole thing is spinning out of control. There have been a couple of occasions when Murphy’s been injured. Shot, broken hand, a serious cold every now and then, but whenever this has happened, there’s always been someone and something to help them. Shady doctors with no real license, hospitals who didn’t ask for insurance information, friends, prison hospital, all sorts of twisted stuff.  
  
They don’t have any of that now. He knows that this is so far more dangerous, even if it’s just a ‘simple’ blood poisoning.  
Murphy is quickly becoming delirious because of the sudden fever, the pain, the infection.  
  
Daryl leaves them to find medication, anything to help the younger MacManus.  
  
Connor stays behind, inside the small shed they’ve found not too far from the place Murphy collapsed.  
  
For the first time in his life, Connor feels terribly alone. Feels the weight, the knowledge of the end of the world crash down on him. Up until now he’s felt sorry for Daryl, sorry for all the people who’ve lost loved ones because of this new and fucked up world. But he’s never _really_ been able to understand. He and Murphy have always lost beloved people. Their life has always been dangerous, they’ve always had to shoot people in their heads and they’ve always been fighting evil. They’ve always lived a shitty life, sometimes starving, sometimes freezing, sometimes lacking water, sometimes lacking smokes and food.  
  
The outbreak’s never really hit them so hard. But now, oh _now_ it’s hitting him _hard_. Like the iron fist of a boxer. Right in his stomach. He’s holding Murphy’s head, placed in his lap, and keeps looking at him. Keeping him cool with wet towels and wet shirts, trying to keep him steady through his violent shivering, the nightmares, the delirious talk and screams of pain.  
  
For the first time in his life, Connor feels helpless, so small, he has no plan, no idea, he doesn’t know what to do, how to keep Murphy safe and save his life at the same time. He knows that Murphy needs medication, knows that he needs something to stop the terrible blood poisoning and infection, but he cannot leave him here and go look for it. No, he needs to protect him, to be with him, to never leave him, to keep him locked away from walker attacks. He needs to be here, every second, in case that this is it, that Murphy is dying.  
  
He cannot leave and go look for medication, because the fear is there, the fear that Murphy could die and turn while he is gone, die all alone, without him, that when he comes back, he sees Murphy, his beloved twin, as one of _them_. But it’s the knowledge of the inevitable that it’s driving him crazy, because if he stays here to watch his brother, he knows that this will ultimately _cause_ his death.  
  
The demons in his mind are playing tricks on him again, driving his overthinking brain into darkness.  
  
 _Daryl won’t come back for you, he thinks you’re weak, he’s leaving you for good. He doesn’t need you.  
He doesn’t care. He won’t come back and there won’t be any medicine.  
  
_ He gets on his feet multiple times. Circling the shed, moving his fingers through his messy hair, looking at Murphy, talking to himself, cursing and destroying whatever’s left inside the shed. He’s constantly just about to get out and leave to look for medication on his own.  
  
 _It’s taking him too long._  
  
After hours of waiting for Daryl to come back, and the sun going down on them, Connor finally decides that he needs to do this on his own. He is Murphy’s protector, he needs to safe his life, he needs to get shit done just like he’s always done it. He kisses his sibling’s sweaty forehead, tells him that he loves him and will be back soon (in Gaelic of course, because it's always calmed Murphy down) and then closes the shed as good as he can, placing barrels and lumber in front of the door to keep it shut, to keep the walkers outside.

*****  
  
The entire city has been wiped clean. He cannot believe this. Connor stares at the empty shelves inside pharmacy, walks around the entire building for a third time just to make sure, but there’s nothing there. Hours of running around town, killing walkers, checking every shelf and every cupboard and every piece of furniture.  
  
There’s nothing there. It’s been his last hope, but there’s nothing there.  
  
“No no no no” he gasps, in utter shock, running around some more until he slams his fist against a wall and then against the shelf, breaking it, making it crash down and sending a hot wave of pain through his clenched fist.  
  
 _There’s nothing there._  
  
He slides down the wall and pulls on his blonde hair, desperation taking over, making his heart pound harder, faster. He’s usually pretty calm about everything. He keeps everything in, never loses it as much as Murphy with his fits, he always tries to approach everything the rational way. He is the thinker, the man in charge, but this is something he cannot control, something that rips his heart out.  
  
It’s the first time he really allows himself to react to everything. The outbreak, the chaos of it all, the death, the fear, the uncertainty, the sorrow.  
  
Murphy is dying. The fever and infection is _killing_ him, because of one fucking nail.  
  
He’s managed to protect him from gangsters, those Russians, school bullies and bullets and the countless opportunities they’ve should succumbed to. He’s managed to protect him from walkers, he’s managed to get him out of overrun Boston and Atlanta, all the way down here, only to lose him to a fucking nail. There are no pills. No bandages. No nothing.  
  
For the first time, in a long time, he allows himself to sob and cry.  
  
For just a moment he allows himself to stop being strong, to be completely vulnerable, to give up, to grieve. He knows that this might be it. He knows that if Murphy won’t survive, he won’t live on as well. He allows himself to cry for just about a minute, then he forces himself to get back up. If Murphy dies, he has to be there. He takes the only thing he’s found, some more towels and a bunch of Kleenex and sanitary napkins and then rushes back, praying to god, hoping he’s not too late.  
  
************************  
He’s shocked into silence when he gets back.  
  
Daryl is there. Wrapping a clean bandage around Murphy’s foot. He can see the leaves that are sticking out of the bandage, can see the weird green stuff that is inside the little bowl to Murphy’s right. There’s a fresh wet towel on his brother’s forehead, he’s wearing fresh clothes, it doesn’t smell like sick but like fresh herbs.  
  
He’s still breathing. Murphy is still alive.  
  
Daryl doesn’t say a single word that night. He won’t explain anything, simply because Connor isn’t asking. Because Connor cannot ask or say anything, he just keeps talking to Murphy, holding him, caressing him, trying to get him through the night. It’s the first time he feels like he’s truly failed Murphy. Each time he watches Daryl change the bandage and apply the weird unknown paint, each time he sees Daryl return with hunted animals, each time he watches him force Murphy to take sips on the fat soup he’s made.  
  
It takes both MacManus twins quite a few hours to recover from this, Murphy is actually faster than Connor there. As soon as the younger MacManus starts complaining about Daryl’s _fockin terrible cookin skills_ and threatens _to barf right in his face if he forces him to eat that shit one more time_ , both Connor and Daryl know that Murphy’s made it. Connor manages to let out a shaky laugh because this is his old Murph, but the shock is still deep in his bones, making it hard for him to truly relax.  
  
Murphy’s still sleeping a lot, obviously stubborn to recover as fast as possible.  
It’s when he’s sleeping that Connor finally allows himself to leave his side, to exit the shed and smoke his first cigarette in two days.  
  
Daryl keeps him company pretty soon, still not saying a single word, until Connor finally knows how to talk again.  
  
“You saved his life” he says quietly, watching the sun rise.  
  
His voice is too quiet and broken because the past couple of days have been terrible, because he hasn’t been able to sleep, because he’s been worried sick. But then he allows himself to look at the hunter, really look him in the eye.  
  
“Thank ye” he says, eyes still red, swallowing hard.  
  
He can’t imagine what it would’ve felt like. Losing Murphy. If it weren’t for the man next to him, his beloved twin brother would be dead and he knows it. And he’s so _grateful_. For everything Daryl has ever done for them. For him. The man with the angel wings. Their savior. Their new soulmate.  
  
“Ain’t gonna let anyone else die no more” Daryl just growls, no longer looking at Connor but staring into the distance, determination showing in his voice, just like the sadness and loneliness in his eyes. He’s taking a drag on his cigarette and then blows the smoke into the air which is getting colder each day. Connor keeps looking at him, giving him that deep look just like he’s done so many times for the past couple of months. He waits for the hunter to put the cigarette away and then closes the distance between them to kiss him, really kiss him, to show appreciation, gratitude, love.  
  
“ _Thank_ ye” he says once more, looking the hunter in the eye right after that to make it important.  
  
For the first time Daryl looks back at him, and just for a moment he looks like a lost little boy, his eyes saying “Really?”, mouth pressed shut to a thin, pale line. And when he understands that this is real, that Connor means it, he nods, still not breaking eye contact.  
  
“Yah welcome.”  
  
And for the first time since the fall of the prison, he feels loved, he feels at peace, he feels like he’s _home_.

* * *

**Connor and Daryl  
  
two days later  
**  
“You alright?”  
  
Daryl startles and looks up, surprised to see Connor here, in his room, this part of the house, downstairs.  
He’s usually upstairs, with Murphy, keeping him company, taking care of his bandages, his foot, petting him like a fucking baby.  
  
It’s the first time he’s allowing himself to sort of be away from Murphy for a bit, although he’s still looking up at the ceiling every now and then, as if trying to make sure his brother is alright. Daryl lets out a gentle snort and looks back down at his can, eating out of it with his hand because he’s been to lazy to get a spoon. He’s resting on the couch, enjoying the silence, the loneliness, the fact that he’s saved a life.  
  
Connor is just standing there, leaning against the doorframe, watching Daryl eat, lost in thoughts.  
  
There is a long pause, then Daryl decides to just be honest and actually answer the question. He stops eating and looks back at Connor, looks him right in the eye, and then nods.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
It’s really the truth. Saving Murphy’s life, looking after him, seeing Connor like that now, so much better, less upset and freaked out, this has helped him a lot. For the first time, in a while, he’s actually managed to _save_ a life instead of losing everyone. And it does make him feel better indeed.  
  
Connor nods.  
  
“Good.”  
  
They won’t break eye contact, and once again Connor is surprised to see how childish Daryl can look sometimes. There’s some jelly stuck in his beard from his previous eating, he looks almost vulnerable when he’s just lying there on the couch, and the Irishman is sad to remember this man’s past, the fact that he’s lost everyone, that he’s alone in this world.  
  
He knows that something is supposed to happen now, that he’s supposed to say something, voice his endless gratitude, but he doesn’t really know how. Because this is deep, this is true. The fear is still deep in his bones, the whole thing with Murphy has shaken him to the core. All he can do is look around the house they’ve found, the place they’ve decided to stay at until Murphy had recovered and until he could walk again.  
  
“Ain’t doin too bad here fer now, aye” he mutters, slowly walking in Daryl’s direction, trying to get him involved in some chitchat to make it easier for the both of them. He uses the opportunity to get closer. Daryl watches him cautiously, rubbing and pulling at his lower lip and getting rid of the jelly there.  
  
“Yeah. Comfiest bed I’ve had in years.”  
  
Connor snorts, looking at the old, shabby couch, smirking.  
  
“What ‘bout te places ye’ve been at before, been sleepin like dogs there? Prison beds can be…”  
  
Daryl stares. Connor trails off, pressing his lips together, clearing his throat.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
Daryl looks at him a moment longer and then avoids eye contact.  
  
“It’s alright.”  
  
Connor lets out a gentle sigh, sitting down on the couch, sitting at the very edge to grant Daryl enough space but be close enough to him at the same time. He’s just staring at the table for a while, the old, broken TV, once again lost in thoughts, obviously still worried about Murphy.  
  
Daryl chews on his lips as he watches the Irishman, feels the air sizzling between them, appreciates the closeness. It’s been a pretty long while since Connor has come this close to him, spent time with him and not just Murphy. It’s actually surprising, considering that Murphy’s the real problem and reason to worry these days.  
  
“Your bro’s gon make it. Herbs gonna do him good. Keep the inflammation down. He's gonna be as good as new in a couple ‘a days. Guy’s tough as nails.”  
  
They both snort. It’s an equally poor and evil remark.  
  
“Nails” Connor repeats, snorting once more.  
  
Fucking nails. He’s decided that he hates nails now.  
  
The Irishman looks at his friend for a while, and it’s the first time Daryl won’t avoid it, won’t break it, he keeps staring right back. Staring. Waiting. Patient.  
  
He knows it’s going to happen.  
  
The moment Connor looks at him like that, the moment he thanks him once again. From the bottom of his heart. He knows Connor is grateful for this, more than he can probably imagine, but it’s not what he cares about, it’s the distance that the Irishman is closing between them then, to show his gratitude once more.  
  
It’s been far too long. Daryl is not the kind of guy to voice anything. Emotions. Needs. Wishes. He’s usually quiet. Stoic. Introverted. Hard to read. But that still doesn’t mean he has no needs, doesn’t wish for certain things to happen. He’s been hurting a lot, too. For the past couple of weeks, the moment he’s seen Connor and Murphy get better. He curses their fucked up triangle relationship, curses the fact that they just can’t be happy and content at the same time, all at once.  
  
No, it takes at least one of them to be unhappy or injured during the process. He knows that Connor will probably never come to him when he’s doing alright, when he’s happy, when he just wants to fuck. But he’s here now, not alright, waiting to be fixed again, eager to thank him.  
  
And it’s _finally_ happening again.  
  
It’s different this time and Daryl immediately knows it, the moment Connor climbs on top of him and claims his lips for a third time. It still makes him flinch and it makes him feel uncomfortable. He still doesn’t want the affection, the tenderness, the whole ‘gay’ thing. But at the same time he totally wants it, because he’s always jealous whenever he hears his friend with Murphy, because he’ll always be jealous of Murphy himself, wants to be like him, wants to get what _he’s_ getting from Connor.  
  
He still won’t respond to the kiss and he still won’t do anything at all, won’t show that he likes it, appreciates it. But he lets Connor keep going, lets him keep kissing him like that, and although he flinches and tenses even more, he even lets him touch him. Lets the hand travel across his chest, inside his shirt, fumbling with the buttons there, exploring, caressing, healing. They’ve never been like that before. They’ve usually been rough and hateful.  
  
The truth is that it’s been okay for a while, but even Daryl feels like there needs to be a change now. The very reason why he’s letting Connor go ahead this time. He’s letting him keep doing it because he doesn’t want him to stop now, he wants to feel loved, too, he’s tired of seeing Connor care so much about Murphy like he’s been doing it for the past couple of days. He wants a piece of that cake, too.  
  
But there’s still a line he does not want to be crossed.  
  
A line that Connor’s trying to cross now.  
  
“There’s something I wanna try” he suddenly says, interrupting the kiss, looking down at Daryl. It’s usually the part where they’d be getting right to the fucking, the part where it’s usually Daryl who takes over, but this time it’s not happening, because Connor suddenly stops, looking at him.  
  
“What?” the hunter asks, immediately freaked out.  
  
He’s half hard already because it still doesn’t take much to get him excited, but he certainly doesn’t like the sound of that at all.  
  
“Just….just fuckin relax, alright?” Connor says, looking him right in the eye, trying to earn his trust.  
  
Daryl knows what this is about. Connor wants to _thank_ him this time. Wants to make it about more than just a short and rough fuck to sort of please him and make him more bearable again. This time, it’s supposed to be about more. And his friend really goes back to it again, kissing him, fishing at the buttons, undoing them, one, two, three. Daryl looks down on himself with wide eyes, watches the hand with the tattooed finger sneak inside, get rid of the shirt as good as he can, only to travel lower, and lower, lower, still way too fucking gently.  
  
Connor manages to unbutton his jeans and undo the zipper, manages to do a short, reassuring squeeze between his legs, manages to pull his briefs down some to get to the bare flesh, but then Daryl goes into panic mode. He doesn’t even want to, it just always happens. His body is not used to this, never will be, he’ll always associate the touch with impending pain. So he flinches hard and immediately sits back up, shoving Connor off of him, chest heaving, breathing hard.  
  
“Stop that shit” he demands.  
  
It’s not supposed to be like that. Never. He’s not gay, he’s told him, many times before, he’s even been lying about it, said that he just needs to do it because he’s lost his girlfriend, because Connor happens to be blonde like her, because there is no one else to fuck right now. (Connor knows it’s a lie, he can tell by Daryl’s insecurity and ignorance, but he keeps playing along, has never tried to pull Daryl out of his little fantasy world if it makes him feel better about it)  
  
“I ain’t your bro” he growls, massaging his forehead, suddenly feeling depressed, tired, freaked out, hating himself. He wishes he can just go ahead because he wants to, but his panic mode refuses to release him.  
  
“Exactly” Connor says.  
  
It is quiet for a very long while. Daryl is nervous, tense, moving about a little, rocking back and forth some, oh so gently, almost invisible, palming his thighs. Connor gives him some time, lets him have the moment to himself to calm down, but he won’t back off. Not anymore. He wants to thank Daryl, wants to let him know that it’s alright, that he’s part of them now, that they are a team. He has Murphy’s blessing. Fuck, Murphy’s almost _asked_ him to do this shit.  
  
Because Murphy is more understanding and compassionate, because Murphy _knows_ what people want, what people need.  
  
 _We owe ‘im Conn. I owe ‘im. You do. He’s one of us._ _You love 'im and ye know it._  
  
He eventually goes ahead and approaches Daryl once more, because he can feel that the hunter actually wants him to. He’s still partially undressed and just sitting there, moving his head a little to the side, as if secretly trying to look at Connor, see if he’s coming. And so he does.  
  
He approaches the hunter and wraps his gentle arms around him. Kissing the back of his head, his neck, his back, where he’s seen the terrible scars. They’ve never talked about them but he knows where they’re coming from, knows what makes Daryl react like that all the time. The fear of touch, the inexperience, the fact that sex and tenderness is foreign terrain to him. He moves his tattooed hand down the hunter’s chest and tries again and this time, Daryl won’t flinch away.  
  
Because this time they’re not looking at each other, not facing each other, there’s enough ‘distance’ going on. It’s the first time he’s allowed to touch Daryl. To jerk him off, to make him relax, let go, to thank him, let him know that his presence is appreciated and wanted here. There are so many demons hunting the redneck, not just the ones on his back, the ones Connor has successfully managed to unmask by now, to reveal, to expose.  
  
“Yer not fuckin alone, alright?” he gasps, a whispered moan in Daryl’s ear because it’s driving him damn crazy as well. He knows it’s a bit queer but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s been wanting to touch the man like that since the first time they fucked in the tent. Daryl is still his secret ‘other’ version of Murphy, the fucked up fantasy, one that he’s already confessed to his brother. Murphy, smart little shit that he is, has known that even before Connor.  
  
Although Daryl’s mouth is open and he really wants to say something or let some noise escape his mouth, he’s shocked into absolute silence. He’s always been fantasizing about this as well, true sex, not the simple fucks he’s used to by now. He’s thought that he’d be incapable of doing this, feeling anything but disgust, pain and hatred during something like this, all thanks to his father, but it’s actually mind-blowingly intense. Intense and _nice_. A small part of his brain is aware of how fucking gay the whole thing is right now, but the larger portion of his brain doesn’t fucking care.  
  
Because there is a rough, strong but at the same time incredibly gentle and skilled _hand_ on his dick, a hand that isn’t his own. He’s surprised how nice it actually is, to be on the receiving end, to be vulnerable, to take and not give. He even allows himself to look down and watch, each slow and then fast twisting motion, reading the word on the finger there, over and over again, each time it reaches his tip.  
  
 _Veritas._  
  
Truth, Connor once explained.  
  
It’s _truly_ fucking amazing, that shit is.  
  
So much, that he won’t complain when Connor pulls him back on top of the couch, in a lying position, making them _face_ each other. The first time they’re doing it, the first time he’s letting Connor do everything. The Irishman is really close to just jerking him off. Watching him come, watching him calm down, give him peace, make him feel his and Murphy’s gratitude. In the end, he decides to test his luck some more, because he seriously wants to do this. Not just for Daryl, but also for himself. It’s something important, something that matters.  
  
He uses his right hand to fondle his friend’s balls some, at first, which even makes oh so quiet and stoic Daryl move and whimper a little. Then Connor goes really far, maybe too far, because then he presses further down, attempting to prep.  
  
He’s not surprised by Daryl’s reaction, who startles violently and almost tries to jump right off the couch.  
  
“The fuck you think…?” he shouts, pure shock written all over his face but Connor won’t back off, won’t stop looking at his friend because this is important.  
  
“Trust me.”  
  
Daryl stills a little, looking at Connor, trying to although it’s still more than obvious that he’s freaked out beyond eternity.  
  
But how the fuck can he not give in now? He’s aching for a release because Connor has let go of him, he’s here, all exposed, it’s not like he doesn’t know what this is about and it’s not like he’s never felt shit like this. It doesn’t matter if his past experiences with this kind of thing have been wanted or not. It’s the past experiences that make him scared, that make him all tense and cramped up and freaked out, but in the end it’s the trust that wins. The loneliness, the need, his stupid fucking girly feelings for this guy on top of him, the feelings that make him want to slap himself so hard because it is so ridiculous.  
  
But it still feels like he and Connor (okay and Murphy the little shit, but he’s unimportant right now) are the only two people left in the world, he knows that there’s so many things and people and undead out there waiting to kill them, he’s literally experienced that there could be tanks and rifles and the flu and psycho killers waiting around every corner, every second, every day. And it’s that knowledge, this ever present certainty that makes him give in.  
  
He knows that he wouldn’t be doing this sort of thing, wouldn’t give in to it if his group was still alive and they were with them, back at the prison. But the prison, the governor, the tank. All of that has fucked him over so much, traumatized him so much, that it makes him give in now. That makes him _need_ it, makes him hungry for it.  
  
Connor is very experienced. He can tell it by the way he’s talking him through it, explaining shit with a calm, collected voice, no matter how aroused he is himself. He is very experienced and cautious, but no matter how much, it still hurts Daryl. It still freaks him out, it’s still giving him a pretty hard time wrapping his head around it. He’s used to dealing with loads of unpleasant things. Gutting animals, eating raw meat, growing up with rednecks and drug addicts and drunks who fall asleep in their vomit, piss and shit.  
  
But it’s still hard getting used to the knowledge that there’s someone fucking _invading_ the very part of his body he’s used to fucking _shit_ with. He’s used to pain but it still hurts, not just because he’s too tight to be comfortable, but also because of past scars, past memories. There are at least ten occasions where he wants to call it off, pull his pants back up and run the hell away, as far away as he can and pretend that nope, he’s never had any gay sex experiences because he was badass Daryl fucking Dixon, but he’s too paralyzed, too scared, too numb and fragile to really call it off.  
  
He feels so little for just a moment, he’s so embarrassed that his face is bright red and a part of him actually wants to cry like a fucking girl because it’s kind of traumatizing, but after a whole couple of minutes and struggling Connor is suddenly inside and hitting _that_ spot, one that makes him shout in surprise and dig his fingers hard in the skin of his friend’s ass.  
  
And once again he’s shocked into silence for a whole bunch of minutes and then Connor is moving and it’s such a contrast to their previous sexual encounters that they both can’t quite believe it. But it’s still happening, the unbelievable thing – Connor’s not just topping but they’re _also looking at each other_. Even worse. It’s scaringly gentle and so much _slower_.  
  
There has never been a girlfriend in Daryl’s life. Connor knows it but won’t call him out on it. Daryl has no experience with this sort of thing, not at all. He’s so much more different than Murphy and Connor knows it will take them a _long_ time to get him there, but it’s a start. He tries his best to make his friend relax and stop being so tense, but he cuts his usually uber-loving caressing and kissing short because he knows that Daryl is not a cuddler, not like Murphy at all. It’s what he loves about their kind of sex, but he wants Daryl to know that there’s other kinds as well.  
  
He’s more disciplined than his friend so he can keep going longer, he takes the time to wait for Daryl to loosen up, to get used to it and hint his first almost invisible actions of response. In the end it’s still the same sex they’ve always had, because it’s all about Connor giving and Daryl taking but not the other way round, only that this time, Connor is _sort of_ getting something out of it as well.  
  
He knows Daryl’s body is not yet trained to really come from simple, penetrative sex. He knows it’s too new and perhaps painful for him this time, so he soon wraps his hand around him to get him off, maybe moving not just the hand but also his hip a bit more energetically because he cannot hold back forever.  
  
Just like the many times before Daryl still needs to grab and pull so hard he’s leaving bruises, pulling Connor closer with deep, almost animalistic grunts when he really gets into it. In the end Connor’s gentle attempts of loving sex between them turns into something rough again, only that this time, maybe it pleases him that he won’t be the only one limping away from it.  
  
They lock in a heated kiss, fisting each other’s hair and touching all over until it’s suddenly and surprisingly Daryl who feels the need to turn around, turn his back on Connor because he’s still not willing to face him during this intimate moment. They barely manage to adjust their positions and there are only to more forceful thrusts and then Daryl’s already coming, letting out a deep and surprised shout once which he silences in the old cushions of the old couch. Connor pumps his hips some more, his considerate attitude momentarily forgotten because he finally realizes that _holy shit, after weeks of thinking about it and even dreaming about it once, he’s actually fucking Daryl this time_ , and then he’s coming to, opening his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut, but sometimes he’s actually quite good at keeping quiet. He doesn’t want to wake Murphy up, doesn’t really want him to hear this.  
  
He then collapses in top of his friend, the both of them breathing heavily, until Connor let’s out a gentle, loving chuckle. Daryl is twitchy and complains about the fact that he _Irish fuck weighs a fuckin ton,_ but when Connor chuckles some more and strokes and kisses his shoulder in response, Daryl won’t complain, won’t flinch, won’t even tense.  


* * *

**Daryl and Murphy**  
  
 **One month later**  
  
They’re washing their clothes together. Sometimes Daryl regrets the fact that he’s saved _the annoying fuckin asshole_ next to him. He hates the way it is, hates his big speeches, hates when he gets drunk, hates when he’s picking fights just for the fun of it, like right now, when he thinks it’s a good idea to get him all fucking wet with a sudden splash of water, like they’re fuckin _children_. He snaps at Murphy and tells him to cut this shit out, he kicks him and throws his drenched and ruined cigarette right in his stupid fucking face and asks him why the fuck he’s gotta be so childish all the time, this is the apocalypse, there ain’t nothing funny about it.  
  
In the end he gives in and sends an even bigger splash of water in Murphy’s direction to kill _his_ smoke, knowing that it will make the younger MacManus even more furious, fucking chain smoker that he is. He gets the reaction he’s aimed for and for a while they get into a fight over it but Daryl will always win, he’s stronger and more forceful than Murphy after all.  
  
He presses him into the mud and pins him down, even thinking about pressing his stupid face into the mud to really teach him a lesson. But he knows the younger MacManus now, he can read the things that are telling him that Murphy is done fighting and fucking about now, because he’s relaxing and grinning and giggling like a fuckin kid underneath him, obviously enjoying how easy it always is to make him angry.  
  
It’s funny that. Murphy is older than him, and yet _he’s_ acting like the grumpy grandfather, always telling the younger MacManus to cut the shit out, he’s hardly ever having fun, he’s always bellyaching about something or keeping quiet for days. And here Murphy is, right underneath him, still so full of life, still so easy going, acting like a trained fucking dog who just wants to play and be petted. Daryl can even see him do the tongue thing sometimes.  
  
It’s all the little things that make him say that he hates Murphy, that make him ‘annoying’ when the truth is so much different.  
  
He loves the kid.  
  
Not like Connor, but he still does. Murphy is the big little brother he’s never thought he’d ever want to have. He’s the version of himself he’s always wanted to be, he’s the kind of person that reminds him of their old society, the kind of people that had made life worth living before all this.  
  
Murphy is the spirit of his deceased group, each and every single one of them and their characters, combined in this one human being. Murphy is Carl’s childishness, Judith’s eyes, Beth’s compassion, Glenn’s agility, Carol’s aura, Rick’s friendship.  
  
The truth is that he doesn’t curse the day he’s saved his life, the day he’s met him along with Connor. The truth is that he doesn’t want him gone, not ever, he doesn’t even want this strange triangle thing of theirs to be gone. Murphy just keeps grinning at him, looking up at him, picking up on Daryl’s thinking. He even raises his head and pecks the hunter on his lips to signalize they’re all good again and then gives him a mischievous, angry grin, presses his clenched fist to the top of Daryl’s head and then ruffles his stringy black hair, forcefully, unforgiving.  
  
“I forgive ye, Daryl dear” he grunts and chuckles when the hunter slaps the side of his head.  
  
They both get back up again to get back to cleaning their clothes, Daryl’s the first to be in an upright position again.  
  
“Fuckin queer” he snarls and tries to light a new cigarette.  
  
Murphy sits back up with a chuckle as well and then wraps an arm around Daryl’s shoulder in a playful and yet forceful manner, patting his upper arm a couple of times.  
  
“Face it, yer part of te club now, ’s good stuff, innit?”  
  
“Go fuck yourself, jerkoff” Daryl grunts, annoyed, trying to shake Murphy off who watches him scrub his shirt. He’s still not too comfortable with it, the fact that Murphy is obviously trying to share stuff with him now, too. Claiming the twin status, even then. Murphy’s suddenly reaching out for the shirt, approaching it with his finger which makes Daryl frown.  
  
“Looks like…ye forgot a spot there, Hill-Bill-Dar-yll” he says, staining the shirt with his muddy fingers.  
  
He starts laughing right then and there and springs to his feet, running away, slipping on the mud but staying on the move with some loud laughter.  
  
Daryl considers throwing some mud after him, but comes to the conclusion that he’s not _that_ childish.  
  
“Jackass! ‘m gonna kill yah annoyin ass some day!” he shouts, determined to sound really angry as he watches Murphy run back to their camp, middle finger pointed at Daryl with a shouted “Fuck you!”, still laughing. The hunter immediately turns his head to look back at the shirt that needs to be cleaned, eager to hide the fact that he’s smirking and chuckling.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I love two ships at the same time and can't decide which one is endgame, which one is 'better' because they both are.
> 
> Comment maybe? Kuddos would be nice as well, if you liked the thing ;D I'm a sucker for feedback.


End file.
